


Founder Effect

by okbutjusthisonce



Series: creature!Lock [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Birth, Breeding, Comforting Sherlock, I wrote a fic where they love each other omg, John Watson is Crazy Knocked Up, M/M, Mpreg, Omega John, Omega Verse, Werewolves, as usual, i always forget all the tags, its still a bit mad, rapid pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 09:15:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2502497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okbutjusthisonce/pseuds/okbutjusthisonce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I almost broke away, I could have - could have-” John can barely finish the thought, let alone the sentence. His memory of Sherlock sitting calmly, inches from his giant, frenzied canine form, playing the violin, occasionally speaking in low, soothing tones, terrifies him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Founder Effect

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween everyone.  
> A bit early yes, but is it really a problem? Nooooo? Okay then!

John reflects on that chilly October evening as he writhes on the bed, struggling against himself. 

When under a full moon and pitch black sky he'd thrown himself in the path of the beast they'd been hunting and become one unexpectedly.

He remembers the initial transition as some long, drawn out fever dream, despite Sherlock's insistence it all happened rather quickly.

_There was the lucid moment of desperation as he put himself between Sherlock and a thing made of nightmares - all teeth and claws, as big as a horse and fast as fear - and then the feeling of being torn apart, or at least the start of it. And then the time of confusion. The beast heavy on top of him, bleeding, dying. Sherlock calling his name, with an unmistakable note of panic. John trying to tell Sherlock he was alright, he was just floating a bit now, the world suddenly smelling and looking bright and painful, like a holiday on fire, like tinsel dipped in blood. Hyde Park seemed as good a place as any to die._

_He'd woken, fully healed, thirsty, hungry, horny. Sherlock, his alpha, had never smelled so good. The whole world was a different place, in fact._  

 _"The only way to save you was to let you turn." Sherlock said with a kind of hollow sadness. And John had nodded and let Sherlock feed him, and hold him, and they'd both cried a little at their fortune, good and bad._  

_Faster than they’d anticipated - hoped, really, John began changing. At first it was tremendously helpful to have someone with superhuman strength, senses, and zero fear chasing down London’s criminal population. For two glorious weeks they were practically superheroes._

_Then John tore someone’s head off, quite literally. A young man who was foolish enough to want to brawl. John hadn’t meant to, only the thing that was in him needed it badly._

_True to form, Sherlock had remained calm after an initial, slight widening of the eyes. John attributed this calmness as the one thing that stopped him; as he’d whipped around, covered in blood, ready for more violence, and instead found himself stared down by his unshakable alpha._

_Sherlock pulling him close in the end, sinking his teeth firmly into John’s shoulder where the scar of their bond bite covered his old bullet wound. John had collapsed then, horrified at his own actions._

"Mycroft's taken care of things." Sherlock says, pulling John from his reverie. John continues to writhe and shiver. Fighting his first change. Sherlock still calm, still touching John constantly, reminding him.

"You're mine." John hears again and again as he feels Sherlock's hands and mouth pushing down on him gently. Half soothing massage, half dominating gesture, John gives himself to it, it's his strongest defence against the thing that's happening to him.

 

+++

 

The first time is a solid black out. He only knows it as some wild, dark dream. In the morning he wakes, chained, the sound of Sherlock’s violin faintly from the other room. As though psychic, Sherlock comes in within moments of his waking to check on him. Same feelings. Thirsty, hungry… full of more desire than he can articulate. Sherlock accommodates, even when John becomes overly excited, biting and bruising his lover. Still he tells John that he owns him, that John is the omega here no matter how wild or strong the thing inside him is. That thing is part of John now, and so it belongs to Sherlock too.

 

+++

 

The second change is dramatically different, he retains the entire memory, it’s a bad dream he can’t wake from, has little agency in. John spends the entire time horrified, hungry, and helpless.

“You… you shouldn’t have done that.” he tells Sherlock the next day. They’ve been through the same ritual: food, water, rough sex all in great abundance. They lie on the floor together in John’s old bedroom - what’s quickly becoming the ‘change room’. It's now an ominous looking place, lacking proper furniture and possessions. Instead it houses a solitary mattress on the floor, a mess of blankets, water bottles, medical supplies and of course, the chains. The scent is strange and heavy in this room, John doesn't quite like it even if it's his own.

“I almost broke away, I could have - could have-” John can barely finish the thought, let alone the sentence. His memory of Sherlock sitting calmly, inches from his giant, frenzied canine form, playing the violin, occasionally speaking in low, soothing tones, terrifies him.

“Nonsense. You’ll do nothing to me.” Says Sherlock, “You’re mine.” John is not so sure.

 

+++

 

Three’s a charm, this time it happens, escape - along with lucidity and a semblance of himself in the beast. This is why, John tells himself, he managed not to eat the love of his life, who stood his ground, somehow radiated enough alpha dominance to cow the monster John had become long enough for John to regain his senses… and break from the flat.

In the morning Sherlock is waiting for him, in the same spot, playing softly. His arm lightly bandaged. John is not as hungry this time, he doesn't want to think about why. Instead he curls up like a child with his head in Sherlock’s lap and trembles. Sherlock strokes John's hair, dresses his wounds. He kisses the places where the metal cut into John when he tore himself from their homemade prison.

“We mustn’t chain you anymore.”

“No…”

“It will take some practice, but… you can provide far better bondage for yourself than a few iron shackles.”

John sighs deeply. He doesn’t want to be bound at all.

 

+++

 

He practices anyway. Changes come more frequently. John terrifies London, but he doesn’t care. Sherlock is still alive, unscathed, still his bondmate, still loves him. It’s all that really matters.

John's body is scarred quite dramatically. That will never change. Sherlock tells him he loves it, he traces his fingers over every imperfection when they lie together.

“It’s our shared history, a physical reminder of the moment you gave me everything.” He says. He moves his lips and tongue along the uneven flesh of John's abdomen and ribs, his mouth reclaiming what another beast sought to swallow.

John wants to tell Sherlock perhaps the sacrifice wasn’t so terrible, in a real way he loves being a Wolf. He doesn’t know how to though. The shame of it is too great.

John has even less of an idea as to how to confess that he longs for his alpha to join him in this new, taboo existence.

It’s biology that saves him the trouble.

“You’re different.” Says Sherlock one day suddenly over tea.

“Well, yeah, obviously.”

“No I mean…” Sherlock’s nose twitches. “You smell…”

“I...?” John feels himself blushing, he guiltily thinks about all the things he’s done lately that might warrant an unpleasant odour. He can think about those actions now, even look forward to doing more of them. Incredible, he thinks, what it's possible to become accustomed to.

“I mean, your scent. It’s...”

“Oh.”

“...you’re on the edge of a heat.”

John realises its true, before Sherlock finishes his words. He's felt feverish and horny all morning. Only he’s been so physically confused with all the other changes, he’s managed to miss the far more obvious thing happening in him. Yet another thing he doesn’t want to have to deal with.

They stare at each other silently for a moment as the possible ramifications sink in.

“I’m on suppressants. And birth control.”

“They’re not working. Your body’s overcome them. It must be the -”

Sherlock’s sentence is cut off as John overturns the table in sudden unchecked rage. That’s been happening too lately. John trembles, upset, angry… and at last embarrassed. He blushes deeply, looks apologetically at Sherlock who is still holding his cup, now the lone survivor from the set.

“I’m… Christ ...I’m so out of control…” John feels himself on the verge of tears. _Hormonal_ , he thinks helplessly. 

“You’re actually doing remarkably well, under the circumstances.”

John is being embraced before he knows it, kisses and caressed.

“You’re so strong, John.”

“A part of me likes it…” He whispers, and Sherlock is pushing him down, peeling John’s clothes away, beginning to ravage him in a way that hasn’t happened before. The fever spikes, he knows it's a hormonal response to his alpha's affections. Sherlock's eyes look strange, as though he’s been drugged with lust. John has a vague impression of Sherlock’s trousers straining, the fabric holding back a surprisingly large bulge.

“A part of me likes it too.” John hears, right before his body is thrown into a state of delirium and ecstasy he hasn’t felt the likes of since he was sixteen. His heat fuelled dreams are full of animal passion, clawing and biting, a pure sexuality he’s never had before. He’ll never know who it was growling.

 

+++

 

When he wakes his belly is swollen. It’s the first thing he notices, after Sherlock.

John untangles himself from between the massive black paws, peels himself away from the warmth of the sleeping beast he’s been curled up against. The new scent of his alpha as a Wolf is enough to make him crazy with joy.

Still he’s terrified at what Sherlock might feel about the situation. He sits quietly, trying to remember exactly how things happened during the heat, but it’s impossible.

His hands rest on his stomach. He can’t quite wrap his head around it, the bulge that wasn’t there before - however many days ago it was. Reluctant to wash his alpha’s scent off him, he still manages to drag his aching body under the hot shower.

When he comes out, he is clean, but to his surprise and relief he still smells of Sherlock… and more. His new scent leaves no room for doubt. He’s been bred, marked beyond question. He understands it instinctively.

Sherlock sits on the floor amongst tattered bedding. They’ve trashed the room irreparably. His arms wrap around himself, his hands run slowly over the surface of his flawless, pale skin as though he is cold. If there were any telltale signs from their violent mating, they’ve gone. He looks wide-eyed at nothing for a long time, in a way John has never seen before. John crawls over to his alpha, his fear refreshed. He reaches out gently to touch.

“Sherlock?” he asks softly. Pale eyes, both familiar and new meet his own. They are full of wonder.

“You never told me…” whispers the deep voice, “You never said it felt like this…”

 

+++

 

"The average gestation period for a Wolf is sixty-three days."

Sherlock's words as he rubs John's aching lower back. It's only been a week and John's belly is already huge. His appetite is endless, he's trying hard to keep up with his body's demands. He tears into a third pack of the raw beef Sherlock's brought back from the butcher's. Modern day hunting is rather easy.

"Christ. I suppose it can't just be one, either, can it." 

"That's extremely unlikely."

John reaches for more meat.

 

+++

 

Sixty-three days goes by faster than one would think.

John is halfway there in just a few short weeks after his heat. His swollen stomach is enormous with the litter he carries. He stays close to home, feigns excuses to the scant number of friends and family. He doesn't want to explain that his belly is absurdly full of Sherlock's children, or why, or how it is he's getting bigger by unbelievable leaps and bounds. 

Sherlock marvels at their achievement, is shockingly proud, excited, lustful. He nuzzles and nips John, feeds him and fucks him. The alpha and the Wolf in him get along swimmingly.

“Do you know,” he says one day as they lie together and he strokes John’s over sensitised belly rhythmically, “It seems there were no Wolves left?” John’s eyelids flutter in ecstasy at his alpha’s touch. He didn’t know, but he suspected it; he hadn’t found any evidence of others when he went out before.

“Maybe... Mm...it...she...was...the last…” John gasps speaking of his creator. 

“Not the last... anymore…not by far...” rumbles Sherlock. His long fingers linger over the bump that was John’s navel.

John hasn't turned since conception. Sherlock on the other hand, turns nightly. Far more frequently than John did. By day he works cases. He is faster, stronger and far more arrogant. He’s more tenacious, more successful than ever.

John doesn't know what Sherlock does by night, exactly.

"You seem to have better control than I ever did." He says.

Sherlock looks back at John with half wild eyes.

"It's not about control," he answers, "It's about intuition - instinct." As if to demonstrate, he picks up his violin and plays a beautiful, terrifying impromptu piece. It's composition is nothing short of inhuman. John gasps as Sherlock finishes by jumping on him with joyful, amourus abandon.

The final two weeks of the pregnancy John remains inside; Sherlock’s become insistent, blatantly aggressive, territorial. He is almost always there.

John doesn’t mind; his stomach is so large he has trouble walking or doing much else. He waddles around the flat slowly, does little besides eat and try to appease his libido. 

John’s pregnancy has left him insatiable; his alpha does his best to please him. John spends countless hours on Sherlock’s lap, straddling him in bed, on the floor, hands and knees with Sherlock on top, John’s gigantic stomach bulging against the floor. It’s never enough.

 

+++

 

The litter is born exactly two months and three nights after heat. John goes into labour unexpectedly, in the middle of the day, in the middle of being impaled on Sherlock’s massive cock. His belly drops lower as they rock together, his waters break with an orgasmic shudder, soaking them both. His contractions come fast and close together. Sherlock moans as John contracts, body clenching around his erection.

“They’re coming now!” John cries, "Now...O-oh-god…they’re… they're..."

They’re large and numerous, seven in all. John bears one after another, a litter of squealing pups, with giant, pale eyes that open right away. They spread him wide, make him groan and writhe in pain and burst with pleasure.

Sherlock paces and huffs like an animal. Joyous and aroused at the coming of his progeny, Sherlock fucks his omega in between arriving cubs. John howls and gives birth, again and again. 

Three weeks later, John changes. It is different this time, his beastly anger is not present. He is not alone. He has a mate and offspring. His animal self is oddly content, he is happy to follow his alpha into the night. It differs even more, this time, from his old runs; they leave the city, race until they hit trees; forest, a world well suited to their shared joi de vive. 

John's happiness is so great, it quickly turns to passion. Neither he not Sherlock resist the heat that follows.

 

+++

 

The house is incredible. It is large, and private, and most importantly on property that backs up to the greenbelt; the place where they first ran together. A place where the pack they are steadily making can thrive.

“We’ll live between here and Baker Street for now.” Says Sherlock, with a quick rub to John’s belly. It’s not been long, but he’s already showing; carrying a bigger litter this time - they both sense it.

The seven explore the grounds fearlessly; they don't speak yet but move confidently through the fauna. John rubs his swelling stomach. Sherlock was right, is always right, it's all about instinct. 

"More, let's have more." John says. 

He feels his alpha slip his hands around his belly and press against him from behind as they watch their children.

They are the first of many to come.


End file.
